


A Basket of Puppies

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Corgis, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'May I request an imagine where the reader loves dogs, so Ringo surprises them with a Corgi?'Ringo + tiny welsh fairy-steeds = awesome.





	A Basket of Puppies

“Hey, lovely.”

You look up, beaming as Ringo enters the doorway, and he smiles at you brightly, sleepy blue eyes shiny under hooded lids.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Ooh?” you beam. Last time he told you he had a surprise, it was a stuffed teddy bear the size of your own body; the time before that, he’d decided to take you on a surprise holiday to Scotland to ‘get away from it all’. You wonder what it’s going to be this time.

The car is outside, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Where are we going?” you ask, excitement building in your voice, and he opens the door for you. “Rich…”

“Don’t call me that, yeh only call me that when yer mad at me,” he says, amiably. “Come on. Hop in.” You do so, and he sits in the driver’s seat, smiling at you. “Alright then… where do yeh think we’re goin’?”

“Holiday,” you guess immediately, and he shakes his head. “…a show?” He shakes his head again. “…family?”

“Nope.” He leans across and kisses you, before starting the car. “Okay. Put yer belt on, sweetheart.” You do so, and as you pull out, you start mentally following the car, trying to figure out where you’re heading. You’re pretty sure that this way leads out of the city; Ringo is whistling a tune as you turn the corner, and you smile. Honestly, sometimes he is literally a caricature of himself, and you reach over, booping that nose. “Cheeky girl, aren’t yeh. Figured it out yet, love?”

“…picnic?” you ask, quietly, and he shakes his head, turning on the car radio.

_It won’t be long, yeah (yeah!), yeah-_

He turns it off again, very quickly, and you begin to laugh hysterically.

“The bloody radio’s infested by Beatles,” he mutters, and you lean back. “Bloody rotten.”

* * *

 

You get out of the car, looking at the farm you appear to have pulled up to. It seems small and adorable. Has he bought the place? Are you moving to a remote farm where people can’t yell random Beatles-related witticisms as you pass? You wish, you think, a little uncharitably, and then he takes your arm.

“This way, gorgeous.” You pretend to swoon, and he guides you to the door - it is answered by a lovely looking woman in a jumper, and she guides you inside, a little star-struck, into the kitchen, where you see-

“Oh my god, Ringo,” you gasp, and kneel down - the corgi waddles up to you, and you pet her, grinning. You still have no idea why you’d be there, but he’s brought you to see your favourite type of dog… seems odd to go all that way, but clearly, you’re missing something here.

“The others are in here, Mr. Starkey,” the woman smiles, and you tilt your head. “Have you not told her?”

“Nope. C’mere, love.” He extends his hand, and you take it, standing up. The corgi yaps at you, and you smile down at her. Told you about what…? As you walk into the next room, the corgi’s tiny feet papping behind you, you have to stop or else you’re actually going to scream.

There is a basket in the middle of floor, and inside are six excited fluffy beans with big pointy ears, who all throw themselves out of the basket like the world’s most adorable lemmings - not that lemmings aren’t adorable - to run into your ankles enthusiastically.

“Oh my god, Rich…”

“Ringo. Yer not mad at me, are yeh?” he says, and you shake your head; you burst into tears, surprising even yourself. You must be here to get one. He wouldn’t bring you here to then cruelly take them away. “Pick one. The house must be too quiet without me there, like.”

You look at them. It’s so hard to choose, because all of them are instantly perfect - but you see one with a darker patch of fur behind it’s shoulders than the rest, and you know that one is perfect.

“Do you know that the Welsh say that corgis were ridden into battle by fairies?” you say, a little dreamily, and the woman smiles.

“She knows her stuff.”

“I want this one…”

“We haven’t named them. She’s a she,” the lady smiles. “Shall I take payment for her? I’ll go through what she needs at the vets, we’ve…” As she takes Ringo aside, you cuddle your new baby to you, and she licks your face sloppily.

“Fae,” you murmur, and the lady raises her eyebrows. “Fae. I’m calling her Fae.”

* * *

 

Fae sits on your knee as you tootle home through city traffic. She’s a licker - that’s something you’re learning as she licks your hands, your arms, even the bits of your face she can get close to.

“You love her, don’t yeh?” he grins, and you nod, tears still spilling down your face. “Little Fae. Yeh gonna have to keep Paulie away from her, he’s mad for dogs…”

You’re listening, of course, but as Fae licks your face again, you aren’t taking the words in. This means more than you could say - more than anything Ringo’s done. And you adore him for it.


End file.
